


Mercy

by lastwingedthing



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/pseuds/lastwingedthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned Stark, in a prison cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Porn Battle XII to the prompt 'mercy', slightly edited since then.
> 
> Warning for dubiously consent.

Sometimes the Queen visits him in his prison. It’s so dark there, so far down in the deeps of the King’s house, and so silent. Ned's warm enough, so far south, but it's quiet enough to deafen, and so alone. His head aches and spins with fever, and time passes strangely, skipping forward dizzyingly fast. And still she comes to him out of the blackness, carrying a small clear lamp with a flame like a pearl. Her perfume smells like roses.

She took his breath away, Robert’s wife, in the gardens and fine airy rooms of the palace. And here she is so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at her. All the filth and roughness of this place and then there she is, her smile, the delicate fluttering colours of her dresses. And her eyes catching his, dark and knowing, and the fall of her golden hair in the golden light.

When she comes Ned thinks of his wife, thinks of his children, thinks of his king; puts them up like a shield between her and him.

Her smile twists past all his defences and strikes him down without a single blow.

Today she has brought fruit for him, some extravagant southern delicacy she splits open with a silver knife. She kneels beside him in the muck and feeds him from her fingertips, swollen seeds that shine like drops of blood, and – but he is so weak.

“Lord Stark,” she says to him smiling, and maybe the low laughing tone is mockery. He doesn’t know, and he’s never known. She’s a creature of the South, all softness and slippery words. Like the skies here, like the sweetest dream of summer you ever had, before you learned that too much sun and too much heat could drive you mad.

He thinks of crisp snow, grey skies, sharp blades. He turns his head away from her, but _eat, my lord_ , she whispers, and her fingers taste so sweet.

(He wonders if her brother’s kissed them too.)

Ned sleeps and wakes, sleeps and wakes, but it’s all the same dream, lost in this dark place. And then the light comes, and with it _her_.

And she reaches out, and unlaces him so sure and knowing, and her fingers – he remembers whores, long years ago with Robert, but this woman is a _Queen_ , surely even no woman of the Lannisters should know these things –

“Have you no honour at all?” he says to her, despairing.

Still she smiles. “Oh, no, Lord Stark. Your honour makes for a fine game, but why should I play it, when you take all of my pieces and give me no chance at all to win? I’ll make my own rules, and damn your game.”

Ned gasps and shakes and moans in her hand. He keeps himself quiet when his moment comes, lets no words sneak past his lips and tells himself that this is victory. But when he sees the curve of her mouth it feels like losing after all.

_Lord Stark_ , she calls him, and, _my lord_. Even when she – touches him, her small soft hand working between his legs.

“My husband used to do you this way, did he not?” Her voice is still a lady’s voice, even now, even when speaking of _this_. “You were so very young, and he was so very handsome, and the road was so very long...” His breath hitches, and her smile doesn’t change. “Oh, and you are so ashamed. You never even told your lady wife, and you do _love_ her so… do you not?”

“You’re wrong,” he forces out, between gritted teeth. “I told her. I love her. You’re wrong...”

In this light her smile cuts like a knife. He meets her eyes, and looks away. And there’s silence, then, except for his ragged breathing growing louder.

“Are you thinking of her, now? Are you thinking of Robert?” Her voice again, so calm and sure.

And he moans this time, for her. Only for her. “No – oh, Lady, Cersei, _please_ …”

She does not make him beg for long.


End file.
